Honor, Courage, Commitment
by Evenmoor
Summary: When NCIS investigates the brutal murder of a seaman in a D.C. alley, they make a horrifying discovery. Case fic.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Honor, Courage, Commitment  
><strong>Language<strong>: English  
><strong>Rating<strong>: T for some graphic crime scene descriptions and occasional language.  
><strong>Genre<strong>: Crime/Drama  
><strong>Summary<strong>: When NCIS investigates the brutal murder of a seaman in a D.C. alley, they make a horrifying discovery. Case fic.  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: I do not own _NCIS _or _Flashpoint_. They belong to CBS Television and Pink Sky Entertainment, respectively.  
><strong>Author Note<strong>: Much as I love _Flashpoint_, this story focuses mostly on characters from _NCIS_.

* * *

><p>"Come on, Josh, it'll save us like ten minutes," the teenage girl insisted, dragging on the arm of her less-than-enthusiastic companion. "We gotta get back before the others wake up!"<p>

"I just want to get back to the hotel in one piece. Dark alleys are where everyone gets mugged and stuff!" he complained.

The young woman rounded on him in annoyance. "What are you? Five?" she taunted him. "This is D.C., not South-Central."

"It's not actually _called _South-Central, you know. And, if you'd bothered to check, D.C. doesn't exactly have the lowest crime rate, either," he retorted. "And if you think I flew across the country on this trip just so as to get mugged in some creepy dark alley because you wanted to save a few minutes on the way back to the hotel after sneaking out for a night on the town, you'd better think again!"

She was about to bite out some petty insult to his manhood when they heard a soft grunt coming from the alley. "What was that?" she frowned in annoyance at being interrupted. They both peered into the darkness. A glass bottle rattled across the pavement, and a quiet groan echoed off the high brick walls. The girl got out her cellphone and used its light to illuminate the alley. It was full of trash, lining the sides and spilling out of a filthy, over-filled dumpster. Then they saw the blood.

It spattered the pavement in dark pools, some of it smeared gruesomely. Just then, a crimson-stained hand appeared from behind the dumpster, gripping it weakly. The young man dashed towards it, forgetting all about muggers for the moment.

"Josh! What're you doing?" the girl shouted, but he ignored her protest as he knelt down by the dumpster.

"Call 911!" he yelled. "Now!"

She fumbled with her phone as the bloody hand grabbed the young man's jacket for a moment. "Hel-" came an almost inaudible gasp. "Helpmm."

The hand fell limply to the ground.


	2. Chapter 2

_Ding._

"So, what was this conference thing about again?" Tony DiNozzo asked his younger partner as they stepped off the elevator in NCIS headquarters.

Tim McGee sighed patiently. "I told you what, five times, last week, Tony," he replied as they walked over to their desks in the bullpen.

"Well, you must not have told me right, McGee," Tony drawled, setting down his bag and sauntering over to loom at McGee's desk.

McGee stared up at DiNozzo, all but rolling his eyes. "You should have gone. You might've learned something, Tony. They had people from all over the world here. There were some really informative lectures, too."

A sudden sneeze startled them. "Glad you enjoyed yourself," Ziva mumbled. Neither had noticed her already at her desk, but that was hardly unusual for the sneaky former Mossad officer. What was unusual was the puffy face and red, irritated nose.

"You feeling alright, Ziva?" McGee asked the normally cool, graceful agent.

"I feel just lemony, thanks for asking," she said in annoyance.

DiNozzo's eyes narrowed in confusion. "I think you mean 'peachy,'" he suggested helpfully.

"If you're done discussing fruit," Gibbs glowered as he swept through, cutting off whatever response Ziva would have mustered, "there's a dead sailor in an alley."

* * *

><p>The alley was a bloody mess, quite literally. It had been taped off by D.C. Metro, and onlookers stared in fascinated horror at the crime scene.<p>

"I found the body," the young Metro cop swallowed, his face pale as he leaned against the hood of his patrol vehicle.

"First DB?" Gibbs remarked, though the answer was fairly obvious. The smell of puke lingered in the air.

"Yes, sir," the officer replied, ducking his head. "I saw his tags, and they called you guys right away. I didn't touch anything. It was pretty obvious he was dead." He glanced down at his shoes and realized the treads were covered in blood. "Oh, God!" the young man gagged, then stumbled off to dry heave against a wall.

"Yeah," Gibbs murmured as he followed the cop's bloody footprints down the alley to the scene of the crime. McGee stood to one side, photographing the scene as DiNozzo sketched it. The corpse was half-leaning against the wall, clothes matted and stained with drying blood, his dog tags hanging loosely around his neck. "Whaddaya got, Duck?" Gibbs asked the coroner bent over the body.

"It was not a swift death, I'm afraid, Jethro," the Scottish medical examiner replied grimly. "Our unfortunate seaman lay here for several hours after being beaten rather savagely."

"Multiple attackers?" Gibbs inquired softly.

"Most likely, yes, though I'll know more once we get him back and perform a full autopsy. I can tell you that he did not go down without a fight. Note the injuries to his knuckles," Ducky said, pointing to the raw marks on the dead man's hands. "Oh, hello. What's this?" The coroner gently pulled on something clutched in one of the hands. After a few moments, it came free, revealing itself to be a wrist band with a gold plate. The writing was obscured by blood and dirt caked by the man's hand, but some letters were still legible.

**L-G BA- -2**

"Hello hello," Ducky said, examining the object with interest. Gibbs held out an evidence bag, and the Scotsman dropped the wrist band inside. "Identity bracelet, maybe?"

"Boss." Tony directed Gibbs's attention to something else nearby: a smashed cell phone. "Looks like it got thrown against the wall here. Explains why he didn't call 911 himself." McGee snapped several photos of the shattered device.

Ziva returned from where she had been interviewing the witnesses. "The witnesses were taking a shortcut through the alley on their way back to their hotel. They're on a school trip to observe the workings of government up close but decided to sneak out for 'a night on the town.' I have already bagged the young man's jacket as evidence." She quickly grabbed a tissue out of her pocket just in time to catch a sneeze. With a sigh, Gibbs tossed her a packet of lozenges, which she caught instinctively.

"Don't contaminate the crime scene. Put on a mask if you have to," he ordered her as he turned back to the scene. "Duck, there's too much blood here for just this one guy," Gibbs observed.

Ducky glanced about and nodded. "I'd have to agree with you, Jethro. Likely, at least some of this belongs to his assailant or assailants. Oh, may we take the body now, Jethro?"

"Yeah, go ahead, Duck," Gibbs acquiesced. "Just don't disturb the blood pools."

"Jethro, would I ever do such a thing?" his friend teased him before gesturing to his assistant to bring the body bag. As they carefully maneuvered the stiffening corpse, they suddenly heard a quiet moan. Both Ducky and Jimmy froze as they tried to locate the source of the noise.

"This guy's dead!" Jimmy protested as he looked down at the body he was holding. "Isn't he?"

Then there came another moan, and a sudden hissing intake of breath. Jimmy blinked over his shoulder into the dumpster and suddenly almost dropped the corpse. "Oh, my God!" he gasped. "There's someone in there!"

"DiNozzo!" Gibbs roared as he climbed up onto the side of the dumpster. Tony thrust the sketch pad to Ziva and clambered up as well. The stench of the garbage was overpowering, but then he caught sight of the top of a man's head, nearly hidden beneath piles of trash. The dark hair was matted with dried and crusted blood.

Without hesitation, DiNozzo reached down into the filth and helped his boss pull the injured man out, careful to support the head and neck. "We need paramedics over here!" he shouted. The EMTs who had been treating the young witnesses for shock rushed over with a stretcher, shoving the spectators aside and passing under the police tape without a second thought.

Within moments, the man was in the ambulance. It departed, sirens screaming into the quiet morning, as the onlookers, including the rookie Metro cop, stared on in disbelief at the sudden turn of events.

Gibbs rounded on his team, shooting orders like rounds from a rifle. "McGee. I want a witness statement from that man. DiNozzo, finish up your sketches and then help Ziva check the rest of this alley for evidence. Go through _everything_. Including the dumpster."

"Oh, fun." Tony grimaced at the thrill of digging through the putrid garbage for potential evidence.

"Mr. Palmer!" Ducky called, snapping his assistant back to the present. "The body, if you please?"

"Yes, yes, of course, Doctor Mallard," Jimmy replied in a hurry, remembering that they were still holding onto a corpse. They set it down in the body bag and carried it back to their own gurney.

Gibbs gazed around the crime scene. Though the blood evidence had been trampled over by the paramedics, McGee had fortunately already taken photos of the scene. He wanted to throttle the Metro police officer for not finding the man in the dumpster earlier. Was he the man who killed the seaman? Or another victim of the same incident? And who was he, and why was he here in the first place?

Too many questions, not enough answers.

"Damn," he muttered under his breath.


	3. Chapter 3

McGee arrived at the hospital not long after the ambulance carrying the wounded man from the crime scene. How had the guy survived as long as he did, McGee wondered, tossed like garbage into a dumpster, laying there for hours before they found him? The wound to his head, from McGee's brief observation, did not look hopeful for his recovery.

As he waited for the doctors to talk with him about the man's condition, he examined the personal effects collected from the John Doe in the ER. There wasn't much. His clothes were not particularly distinctive, just blue jeans, a dark colored T-shirt (now severely disfigured) emblazoned with an interlocking T M L, socks, and tennis shoes. No cell phone, wallet, or watch. Had he been mugged, or had he not wanted to be identified? Was he a criminal or a victim?

"Special Agent McGee?" the ER doctor interrupted his thoughts as he walked over and shook his hand.

"That's me," McGee replied, setting the items down on the table. "What can you tell me?"

"Your John Doe's injuries are consistent with him being involved in a fight- mostly minor bruises and scratches to his arms. The only serious injury is the head wound. If he'd been brought in sooner, I might've been able to give you a better prognosis. It's touch and go right now - he's got some serious brain swelling. If it goes down, I'm fairly confident that he should be able to recover fully."

"Did he say anything at all?"

"Nothing coherent; his level of awareness was very minimal. He's unconscious again now. Frankly, I'm surprised he woke up at all," the physician marveled, shaking his head. "He must have one hell of a thick skull."

"Okay, I'll need to take photos of him, and I'd like you to notify me as soon as he regains consciousness," McGee informed the doctor, handing him his card.

"Of course," the doctor nodded. "He's in the ICU now. You need someone to show you?"

"No, I know the way. Thanks anyway." McGee bagged the effects and grabbed his camera.

_Flash._

McGee photographed the man's stitched head wound from several angles, the shaved scalp livid with dark bruising. The less gruesome black and blue on his arms looked like defensive wounds from blocking blows. Then he examined the John Doe's hands, which were scraped at the knuckles. Looking closely, he saw the man's fingertips were scarred, many times over. Nothing too major, but remarkable upon close inspection. More photos were taken of these. His hands were calloused in a strangely familiar way, but McGee couldn't quite place it. A tan line on his left wrist marked where he usually wore a watch, and a rather large, bulky one at that, but no similar sign of a wedding ring. Then he photographed the man's torso, which told a very interesting story. More scars, old scars. Burn scars. Not from a fire, more like small explosion, and definitely not recently.

Who was this guy?

He took several photos of the pale, distinctive face, framed by short dark hair. When he was finished with the photographs, he used his handheld scanner to take the man's fingerprints. Hopefully, he was in the system somewhere.

* * *

><p>"Our victim is Seaman Julio Ramirez, a computer technician stationed at Seal Beach Naval Weapons Station in California. According to his CO, he was in town for the convention while on leave." DiNozzo frowned at the face on the plasma screen. In his file photo, Ramirez smiled, his eyes sparkling, unlike than the more usual grim or stern expressions. "Who flies across the country to go to a convention while on <em>leave<em>?" he asked rhetorically, shaking his head. "Besides McKnow-it-all, of course."

Rightfully ignoring the statement, Ziva picked up the narrative. "No family, parents died in a car accident just after he joined the Navy. Since then, he's had good performance reviews from his commanding officers and he's never been in trouble or had any reprimands in his file." She grimaced, then blew her nose noisily.

Gibbs gazed steadily at the face of the victim on the plasma. "Any word on the John Doe?" he asked.

"No ID yet; McGee uploaded his face and prints from the hospital. Abby's running them now," Ziva sniffled as DiNozzo used the remote to flip to the photos that McGee took of the John Doe. The stitches in his scalp were at least clean and neat, a definite improvement over the caked blood and filth.

"Male, 30s. Blunt force trauma to the head - docs say it's touch and go," Tony elaborated. "No word on when he'll wake up, or if he even will."

Gibbs stared closely at the old scars of the unconscious man on the screen. His phone rang abruptly, interrupting them. "Gibbs," he said into the receiver. "Alright, Abs, I'll be right down. You two," he turned to DiNozzo and Ziva, "go check out wherever Ramirez was staying."

* * *

><p>"Gibbs, Gibbs!" Abby Sciuto, forensic scientist extraordinaire, bounced about in excitement.<p>

"What do you have for me, Abby?" he asked patiently.

"I've got a name!" she exclaimed, holding up a familiar object. It was the wrist band Ducky had discovered clutched in Seaman Ramirez's hand, now carefully cleaned of blood and grim. The gold plate practically gleamed, and the bold black letters clearly read:

**L. YOUNG BADGE 1902**

"A cop." Gibbs sighed. He hated getting involved with the local LEOs, the squabbling, the credit-grabbing, the withholding of information. Especially if a cop were the victim or the perpetrator.

"Yeah, but I can't find any record of an 'L. Young' with badge number 1902 in D.C. or the tri-state area. But since we had that big convention all last week, he could be from anywhere. California, South Dakota, Australia, Britain, Canada, South Africa, Langley-"

"Abs, if he were from Langley, they'd already be down here denying any knowledge of his existence," Gibbs gently interrupted her. "Keep at it. Anything else?"

Abby flashed him a huge grin. "I looked at the photos McGee uploaded from the hospital. I'd say your John Doe handles bombs. These scars on his torso are what you get from a bad mix blowing up. They're old. But the ones on his fingertips are the kind that you get from doing this sort of this repeatedly, over a long period of time. I already asked McGee to get me a swab from his hands to see if he's been handling explosives recently."

Gibbs smiled and kissed her on the forehead. "Good work, Abs."

"I'm not done yet!" she said gleefully. "This pipe Ziva found in the dumpster was definitely used to smack the John Doe. It corresponds to the wound on his head, and I found blood and hair consistent with him." She directed Gibb's attention to the metal object on her table. "Unfortunately, the prints are all smudged. I'm still working on getting something usable off it. Oh, and the cell phone from the alley belonged to Seaman Ramirez - I was able to salvage his SIM card. Nothing useful on his phone to point us anywhere, though. Though there were a few calls to some rather naughty numbers-"

Abby whirled around, but Gibbs had already vanished.


	4. Chapter 4

_He was ten years old, home in bed, sick with the flu. His mother leaned over him, holding out a bowl of steaming chicken soup, always the perfect cure for any ailment. "There is nothing better," she always said. Just like her. His entire body ached as he leaned forward to take a sip. But then she vanished, and he was alone, shrouded in the darkness._

* * *

><p>"There's really no mystery as to how this poor boy died, Jethro," Ducky explained as Gibbs stalked into Autopsy. "Multiple blunt force traumas to his head and torso resulted in internal bleeding. He might have survived if only someone had found him sooner. What killed him in the end was an acute subdural haematoma." The coroner shook his head sadly. "What a tragic waste." He pointed to the livid bruising on the young man's arms. "These are defensive wounds here on his arms, as you can see. He put up quite a fight, and he did not go down easily. Notice the injuries to his knuckles, as well."<p>

"Did you look at the photos McGee sent from the hospital?" Gibbs asked, pacing around the table.

"I did indeed, Jethro," replied Ducky, leading Gibbs over to the computer to pull up the images. "This fellow's bruising is fairly irregular. My best guess is that his opponent was unarmed and fighting him with his fists." He momentarily assumed a pugilistic pose for emphasis before continuing. "However, the blow to the head would have rendered him unconscious almost instantly. And, as you can tell from the angle of the injury-"

"He was struck from behind," Gibbs concluded grimly.

"Indeed," Ducky agreed. "Either he turned his back to his opponent, who then picked up a weapon and struck him with it, or he was taken unawares by a second individual."

Gibbs frowned as he mulled over the possibilities. There didn't seem to be any direct evidence of anyone else in the alley besides the dead seaman and the John Doe, but a lack of evidence hardly precluded the possibility. It was a wreck, after all. But the evidence they did have troubled him: if the head wound had knocked the John Doe unconscious, how had he ended up in the dumpster? Seaman Ramirez could hardly be expected to heave him in, given his own injuries. And both appeared to have been struck by the metal pipe. "Got anything else, Duck?"

"Yes, I was looking over the photos of our John Doe when I saw some very interesting scarring on his torso and fingertips. If I were a betting man, Jethro, I'd say that, at some point, he had a very unfortunate encounter with a small explosive." This tallied with Abby's observations. "I was also spotted something else worthy of note while examining his hands." Ducky zoomed in on the image of the John Doe's right hand, focusing on the index finger. "You see that callous, Jethro?"

"Oh, yeah. This guy has handled a gun." Gibbs had one just like it, formed by many years of rubbing against the gun.

"And for quite a long time, to judge from this," Ducky nodded. "I hope some of this helps you identify this man, Jethro."

Gibbs hoped the same, because so far they had no motive for the attack.

* * *

><p>Seaman Ramirez's motel room showed little sign that anyone had inhabited it for the past week. The bed was neatly made, nothing was out of place; there wasn't even anything in the trashcan.<p>

"He displays an admirable tidiness," Ziva said approvingly. "You could learn something from this, Tony."

DiNozzo examined the room in disbelief. "I've never seen a motel room look so clean. It's unreal!"

Ziva bent down and glanced under the bed. "Here is his suitcase," she exclaimed as she yanked it out and set it on top of the bed. She popped the catches and opened it, revealing it to be fully packed, from his underwear to his toothbrush. "It seems Seaman Ramirez was packed and ready to leave. Here's his plane ticket." She pulled out a pamphlet from behind the boarding pass in one of the pockets.

"Well, he was definitely at the convention," Tony remarked as he looked over her shoulder. "McGeek had one just like this on his desk. Hey, check it out! They had speakers from Scotland Yard!"

The former Mossad officer rolled her eyes and closed the pamphlet. "Hardly surprising, given that the London Metropolitan Police is one of the world's oldest modern police forces," she pointed out dryly.

"Ah, yes, the land of Sherlock Holmes and Inspector Morse," drawled Tony, checking in the nightstand drawer. Closing the drawer, he circled around in frustration. "I don't think there's anything here."

"For once, I actually agree with you," Ziva concurred, taking one last glance around. The room had not yielded any significant clues, and the two NCIS agents soon departed with Seaman Ramirez's personal effects.

* * *

><p>About 480 miles away, Sergeant Greg Parker was tackling a mound of paperwork in the Strategic Response Unit briefing room. He rubbed his bald pate in boredom. <em>You've seen one DD5923-stroke-zed form, you've seen them all.<em> One of the less than enjoyable parts of being Team 1's sergeant meant he had to do these sorts of things all the time. On the plus side, it had been a remarkably quiet week, which could only be considered a good thing since Team 1 was down a man. Granted, they had a guy from Team 2 filling in, but it just wasn't the same. Teams were an exercise in some mysterious form of alchemy, and things seemed just a little off-balance at the moment.

It was times like this he missed Wordy - he had always been one of the most level-headed people Parker had ever met. His departure had been hard on Team 1, especially since it had been so sudden and unexpected for most of them. Raf was a good man, but he was still learning the ropes in many ways.

"Hey, Boss," said Team Leader Ed Lane as he came into the briefing room. Ed had an intensity and tension surrounding him; most of the time, he kept it hidden or channeled it into a workout or firing range exercise. Now, however, it positively crackled around him.

"Yeah, Eddie, what is it?" Greg asked his team leader.

"You haven't heard from Spike, have you?" A simple question, but layered with concern.

Greg set down his pen. "No. Why? He's not supposed to be back on the job until tomorrow."

Ed's expression didn't change. If anything, it became even more intense. "His mother called. She said that he never made it home this morning. I called the airline, and they said that he missed his flight."

"Did you check with his hotel in D.C.?" Greg inquired, a chill spreading through his body.

"Yeah, I did. They said that he hasn't checked out yet."

This was totally out of character for Spike, as Greg well knew. The man would never behave in such a fashion under normal circumstances, and especially not now, so soon after losing his father. As Parker shared a look with Ed, they both knew with grim certainty that something had happened to Spike.


	5. Chapter 5

McGee entered Abby's lab, pushing the cart with the John Doe's effects, plus the various swabs and other samples he had taken at the hospital.

"It's about time you got back, McGee," Abby teased him playfully. "At least you brought me some presents this time."

He placed the bags of clothes on the table and handed her the other swabs and samples. "Do we have a name for the John Doe yet, Abby?" he asked.

"No," she replied, "and it's starting to annoy me. His fingerprints aren't in any database so far. You'd think that someone who likes to blow things up as much as he does would have gotten into some fingerprint database somewhere. And for all I know, he might not even be from the U.S."

"Well, now you have DNA to run, too," McGee cheered her, "and his clothes. Maybe they can tell you something."

Abby smiled flirtatiously at him. "They always do," she said as she stepped over to the table and pulled on some gloves. She opened the first bag, the man's shoes. "Shoes are always a good place to start. They know everywhere you've been." Abby took several samples from the treads before examining the shoes themselves. "These are nice shoes, too. They're a good balance of cost to durability and comfort. They're relatively new, but they've obviously been put to a lot of use already," she observed.

"So he probably gets a lot of exercise," McGee suggested wryly. Abby rolled her eyes as she moved on to the next bag, the T-shirt. The garment had been cut down the middle during the efforts to save the man's life, but would probably have been rendered unwearable anyway by the stains from blood and less identifiable substances from the dumpster.

"'TML,'" Abby read off the disfigured shirt. She smiled at McGee. "As T-shirts go, I've had less to work with," she explained as she turned away and started typing away at her keyboard. "It could be anything, but I'll track it down in no-" She blinked when the computer returned a result almost instantly. "-time at all. Well, that was even quicker than I'd thought it would be."

She brought up the results on the screen. "'Toronto Maple Leafs,'" Gibbs read, startling both Abby and McGee out of their skins by his sudden appearance. "Canadian hockey team." He handed Abby a large cup of _CafPow!_as he stepped over to the large plasma screen on the wall.

"Gibbs!" Abby chided him affectionately, "Don't sneak up on me like that!"

Gibbs merely stared at her inscrutably. "Have you tried searching the Toronto area for 'L. Young' yet?" he asked abruptly.

"You do know we don't exactly have access to Canadian police personnel files, Boss," McGee pointed out. Gibbs shot him a withering look. "Right," replied the younger agent after a moment. He stepped over to the keyboard and began typing away madly. "Well, it can't hurt to try-" he muttered. "Oh."

"What is it, McGee?" Gibbs demanded impatiently.

Instead of answering immediately, he pulled up his results on the plasma screen. It was an archived news article, dated a couple years ago.

**Officer Killed in Bomb Scare**

"Constable Lewis Young of the Toronto Metropolitan Police's Strategic Response Unit, Boss," McGee said finally, his mouth dry. His eyes ran through the article. "He was killed by a booby trap during a bomb scare in Toronto two years ago."

"That's horrible!" exclaimed Abby, leaning over McGee's shoulder to read the article herself.

"According to the article, they were able to successfully remove the bomb and contain the situation," McGee continued before Gibbs interrupted him.

"McGee." Gibbs said softly. "The picture. Blow that picture up."

He focused on the image accompanying the article. "Oh, God," he swallowed. The photographer had captured the moment after the booby trap exploded. A dark-haired female SWAT officer stood sobbing in the arms of a taller man, while one of their compatriots simply looked stunned. But what really caught McGee's eye, and no doubt that of the photographer, was the tableau in the center: a stocky officer with sergeant's chevrons, one arm around the shoulders of another man, kneeling on the ground with an expression of utter anguish and despair. McGee suddenly realized that it was the face of their John Doe, caught in a moment of total horror.

"'Despite the best efforts of the SRU, they were unable to disarm the land mine. Constable Young was killed in the subsequent explosion, though no others were injured,'" he read, a chill passing through his body. Involuntarily, his mind flashed back to the sight of Kate laying pale and still in the drawer in the morgue.

Gibbs stared at the familiar face of their John Doe frozen in pain. "He was the one who couldn't disarm the booby trap."

"He's a bomb tech," Abby reasoned, comprehension dawning on her. It suddenly made sense now - the scars, the callouses, everything.

"The question is, is he _still _a bomb tech?" McGee remarked as he threw off the cold that lingered in his fingers. "None of the other officers are identified in the article, but now that we know that he worked for Toronto Metropolitan Police we can probably get a line on him."

Gibbs turned and walked out of Abby's lab without another word. Soon they would have a name for their John Doe. The question still remained: why was a (current or former) Canadian SWAT officer in a D.C. alley with a Navy computer technician from Southern California? As Gibbs stepped into the elevator, he closed his eyes and looked at the face of their John Doe. How much had been left out of that article, he wondered? There was no faking the horror in that man's expression. Gibbs was all too familiar with it. Part of him loathed the photographer for capturing that moment of pain for all the world to see.

* * *

><p>"Sergeant Parker, I have a call from an agent from NCIS in Washington D.C. on hold for you," Winnie said, confusion clear in her face as she leaned in the door.<p>

The Americans had innumerable agencies in their alphabet soup of a government. Not that Canada was much better. Greg shared a look with Ed - could this be about Spike? "I'll take it." He went to the phone and picked up the receiver while Winnie opened the line. "This is Sergeant Greg Parker. What can I do for you?"

"_Hi, my name is Special Agent Timothy McGee. I'm with the Naval Criminal Investigative Service's Major Case Response Team in Washington D.C. I'm trying to identify an individual who was on your team about two years ago. We have reason to believe that he was your bomb technician at the time_," said the voice at the other end of the call.

Greg closed his eyes briefly. Spike, what was going on? "May I ask the reason for this call, Agent McGee?" he inquired, his cool professionalism as a crisis negotiator taking over.

"_The individual in question was involved in the death of a member of the U.S. Navy_," McGee replied. "_I'm not able to give you any more information at this time because the investigation is ongoing._"

What the hell-? Death of a sailor? "I'd prefer to talk to whoever's in charge of this investigation, Agent McGee," Greg said with far more calm than he felt at the moment. Ed and Winnie stared at him questioningly.

_Spike, what the hell is going on?_


	6. Chapter 6

Despite the angle of the picture, using a little image enhancement McGee had just been able to make out the letters P, R, K, and R on the back of the SRU sergeant's tac vest. It hadn't been _too _much of an intuitive leap to make "Parker" out of that. A call to the Toronto Metropolitan Police switchboard had confirmed it quickly enough when McGee simply asked to speak with Sergeant Parker of the SRU. A simple, but effective course of action. And quick, as it turned out.

He was only forwarded once, to the SRU extension, where he spoke with a pleasant female voice for a minute before being put on hold. It took much less time than he was expecting for the call to be picked up again - he was half wondering if they were going to leave him hanging for hours. It wasn't that he disliked (or particularly distrusted) Canadians, but almost every local police force seemed to get tetchy when their officers somehow became involved in a federal case, especially if the federal agency in question happened to be from another country entirely.

"_This is Sergeant Greg Parker. What can I do for you?_" came a strong male voice. Simple, and direct, would be the way to go here.

"Hi, my name is Special Agent Timothy McGee. I'm with the Naval Criminal Investigative Service's Major Case Response Team in Washington D.C. I'm trying to identify an individual who was on your team about two years ago. We have reason to believe that he was your bomb technician at the time," McGee explained.

"_May I ask the reason for this call, Agent McGee?_" Sergeant Parker asked immediately.

It was hardly an unreasonable request, especially from a fellow member of law enforcement. "The individual in question was involved in the death of a member of the U.S. Navy," McGee elaborated, deciding not to hand out too much at the moment. "I'm not able to give you any more information at this time because the investigation is ongoing."

There was brief moment as Sergeant Parker mulled over McGee's statement. "_I'd prefer to talk to whoever's in charge of this investigation, Agent McGee_," was his cool reply. Not exactly the response McGee had been hoping for. All he wanted was a name. Why would Parker refuse to answer? It struck McGee as a bit odd.

"Sir," he began appeasingly, "I would deeply appreciate your cooperation in this matter. It's important that we identify this individual as quickly as possible."

"_Agent McGee, I understand your position. Now please try to understand mine. You're asking me to identify a member of my team without telling me any more than he was somehow involved in the death of an American sailor. Please, let me speak to your boss, Agent McGee._" Sergeant Parker maintained a remarkably level and calm tone throughout his statement - establishing a rapport, an understanding, while still standing his ground. McGee was being handled. Oh, fun.

Realizing that he wasn't going to get much more out of Parker, McGee concluded the conversation. "I'll see what I can do. Thank you for your time, Sergeant."

* * *

><p>A thousand thoughts flashed through Greg's mind as he set down the telephone receiver, and none of them were good. "Winnie, I want you to set up a video conference in the briefing room. I want to speak to these guys face to face," the sergeant instructed her grimly. With a nod, she instantly went to get everything ready.<p>

"What's going on, Boss?" Ed asked in a low voice. "Is Spike alright?"

"I don't know, Eddie. They're playing this one close to the vest. Whatever's happening over there in D.C., it's definitely not good," Greg replied, not bother to hide his concern from Ed. "And you know as well as I do that American feds like to run roughshod over the rest of us." He bit out a curse. "I'll have to notify Hollerran."

* * *

><p>"Well, McGee? Do you have a name?" Gibbs asked his agent impatiently as he stalked over to his desk in the bullpen. This case was bothering him more and more. His gut told him that he was missing something fundamental, something that was staring him smack in the face, and it was driving him crazy.<p>

Gibbs was not happy when McGee frowned. "The supervisor, a Sergeant Parker, asked to speak with you before giving out a name."

"Get them on in MTAC," Gibbs snapped, more frustrated than ever with the case. Once again, he was reminded why he hated dealing with local LEOs. Hell, any other LEOs at all. At least it wasn't the CIA this time. "I want to talk to this guy face to face."

McGee responded to his demand with admirable alacrity. "Yes, Boss," he replied, all but leaping out his chair and running up the stairs.

* * *

><p>Sergeant Parker waited. It didn't take Winnie long to set up the equipment in the briefing room - she knew how to do her job as well as anyone else around here. Holleran could hardly have been described as happy when Greg told him about the call from NCIS. To be accurate, he was downright angry, and more than a little upset. But, displaying remarkable trust, he agreed to allow Greg to handle the situation; Parker was an expert crisis negotiator, after all, and the circumstances of the incident were still murky.<p>

"Sergeant Parker, we're getting a video conference call request from NCIS in Washington, D.C.," Winnie said abruptly, interrupting his thoughts. It seemed _they _wanted to talk to _him _just as much as he wanted to talk to them.

Greg shared a meaningful glance with Ed before giving Winnie the go-ahead. Now they would finally find out what the hell was going on with Spike.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N**: I know some of you might have waited a long time for me to update this story. Thank you for you patience! I hope to finish up with it soon, so you can look forward to a resolution! Thank you for reading, and enjoy. Cheers!

* * *

><p>At Gibbs's signal, the screen in MTAC changed to reveal two men in tactical gear. Both were bald, but one was tall while the other was shorter and more stocky in build.<p>

"I'm Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS," Gibbs said by way of introduction.

"_I'm Sergeant Greg Parker, and this is Constable Ed Lane of the Toronto Metropolitan Police Strategic Response Unit_," the shorter man said while the taller one loomed behind him. "_Your agent called us about one of my men possibly being involved in the death of a seaman?_"

"Yeah, that's right. Look, I understand your concern, Sergeant Parker, but the circumstances of the case are still murky at best." Gibbs wanted the Canadians to cooperate, but he didn't want them to interfere, either.

"_That's fine, Agent Gibbs. We're willing to cooperate with you, but please tell us what is going on down there_," Parker requested, his voice shaded with polite helpfulness. "_A few of us are getting a bit worried._"

Gibbs knew that tone; in this case, 'a bit worried' no doubt meant 'very concerned.' Parker was no doubt very good at controlling his emotions, but Gibbs had been at his job too long to be taken in. "The body of a seaman was found in an alley this morning. Your constable was found next to him," he said baldly, watching for their reactions as McGee posted one of the photos he took at the hospital.

The reaction was immediate and intense. "_What the hell - is he alright?_" demanded the taller man, Ed Lane, stepping forward, his eyes blazing with anger and fear - concern for the well being of a friend. Gibbs relaxed a little inside. He'd been hoping for this.

"_Ed_," Parker quietly cautioned his teammate before turning his attention back to the Americans. "_What is Constable Scarlatti's condition, Agent Gibbs?_"

Gibbs held a private moment of triumph. They had a name. "He's in a coma at the moment, Sergeant. What was he doing in D.C.?" In the corner of his eye, Gibbs saw McGee typing madly away at the computer terminal, no doubt gleaning all he could on their former John Doe.

"_He was attending a law enforcement computer forensics conference. Constable Scarlatti is Team 1's technical expert. He was supposed to be take a red eye back to Toronto this morning._" The bald sergeant paused a second, and Gibbs saw just a flash of inner fear in his eyes. "_How bad is he, Agent Gibbs?_"

"It's touch and go at the moment. I suggest you notify any family he has," advised Gibbs stoically. He didn't miss Ed Lane's expression of guilt and grief, either.

"_Thank you, Agent Gibbs. Is there anything we can do to assist with your investigation?_"

"Does he know anybody here in D.C.? Any contacts at all?"

Parker frowned and shared a look with Constable Lane, who shook his head. "_None that I'm aware of. __He didn't say anything about running into old friends at the conference, either._"

"_And he would if he did_," Lane observed forcefully, turning his gaze on Gibbs. "_And Spike certainly doesn't know any American Navy guys._"

"_Constable Scarlatti's a good cop, Agent Gibbs_," Parker stated firmly. "_Every time we're called out to an incident, we put our lives in each others' hands. I think you know what that's like, how well you get to know a person, how much trust we have in each other. Find out what happened to him._"

"Thank you for your cooperation, Sergeant Parker." With a slight nod, Gibbs broke the connection. "McGee," he said, stepping over to his agent's workstation. "What do you have on Constable Scarlatti?"

The younger agent smiled victoriously. "His full name is Michelangelo Scarlatti. As far as I can tell, 'Spike' is just a nickname. His parents are Italian immigrants. His father died recently of cancer. He's not only the technical expert for Team 1, he's their bomb technician as well."

"Explains the scars," Gibbs remarked, pleased at the confirmation of his gut.

"Yeah. The Strategic Response Unit had record numbers of call-outs over the past few years, and a few high profile incidents, including one in which they took down a gun supplier responsible for a third of the weapons supply in Toronto. The most recent big incident was a bombing against a weapons tech firm. Several people were injured, but no one was killed, and despite the danger, Constable Scarlatti successfully disarmed the bomb that would have taken down the entire building. As far as I can tell, he's an outstanding cop, Boss," McGee shrugged.

Gibbs grimaced in frustration. "So, we've got a model seaman and a model cop, from two completely different places, don't know each other at all, meet in a dark alley in the middle of the night. One ends up dead and the other seriously injured. Is there something missing here, McGee?"

McGee's eyebrows shot up. "Maybe... another person? Someone else was there?" he speculated.

"Ya think, McGee?" Gibbs said as he stalked out of MTAC. "Find the evidence!"

NCIS/FLASHPOINT

_He was back in the building, trapped below ground, facing the bomb with only a few seconds left on the timer. Only this time, he couldn't type in the access code (425462!) fast enough, his fingers trembled too much, and the bomb exploded, taking him into darkness once again._

NCIS/FLASHPOINT

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" Abby crowed over her computer, jumping up and down in triumph.. "I got you now!"

"Whoah, Abby, don't give yourself a heart attack there," Tony advised, eying the large number of _CafPow!_ cups on her desk.

The forensic scientist looked at him disbelievingly. "Really, Tony? I just break the case, and that's all you can say?"

"Really?" Tony's eyebrows came together in surprise. "Then you're doing better than Ziva and I did. The victim's motel room was a bust." He heaved the suitcase onto the evidence table. "We got _nada_."

Abby grinned, not hiding the glee at her success. "Well, then, Tony, I'm about to make you _ecstatic_." She whirled back to her computer, pigtails flying around her head. "I was finally able to clean up the prints on the pipe, and guess what?"

"They don't belong to either of our victims," Gibbs declared, startling DiNozzo out of his skin by his sudden appearance behind him.

"Aw, Gibbs, you spoiled the surprise!" Abby seemed momentarily disappointed, but threw it off a second later. "But you're right," she smiled brightly. "I just matched them to this guy, Robert 'Little Bobby' Freeman."

A mugshot appeared on the plasma screen on the wall. 'Little Bobby' was a scrawny looking punk, grinning insolently at the camera.

"He's been busted several times by D.C. Metro for petty theft, and once for mugging with this guy, Tommy Cassidy," Abby continued, pulling up a second mug shot.

"What is this, _The Princess Bride_?" DiNozzo said in bemused observation. "It's like Fezzik and Vizzini, D.C. style!"

Gibbs turned around and stared at Tony steadily.

"It's just that one's small and the other's huge and..." Tony trailed off. "Shutting up now, Boss."

"Anything else, Abs?" Gibbs asked, turning back towards the excitable forensic scientist.

She grinned in victorious satisfaction. "Just that both of them got picked up by D.C. Metro this morning at Washington Hospital Center."


	8. Chapter 8

"They hate us. I'm tellin' you, they hate us," Tony grumbled in annoyance as he and Ziva idled in the D.C. Metro lobby. All the magazines were at least a year and a half old, and they didn't even have the decency to stock Sports Illustrated.

"They do not hate us, Tony," Ziva contradicted him. "They hate _you_."

Tony glared at her; he and the Washington, D.C., Metropolitan Police Department didn't exactly have an amicable relationship, and it showed every time the two agencies interacted. "Thanks for that."

"Hello, Agent DiNozzo, Agent David. So wonderful to see you again," a familiar voice drawled. "So, what can D.C. Metro do for NCIS this time?" Detective Danny Sportelli sauntered out into the lobby, clearly taking his time and enjoying every second of it.

"Ah, Sportelli. We meet again. Believe it or not, you have someone we want," Tony said, plastering on his best used car salesman grin, inwardly wishing to irk the other man as much as possible.

"_Two_ someones, actually," amended Ziva. "And we do _not _appreciate being forced to wait out here while you eat... whatever that was." She wrinkled her nose slightly as she fixed a steely glare upon the detective.

He crossed his arms over his chest. "Look, contrary to popular belief, the world doesn't revolve around you guys," he snapped. "What is it you're after, and why?"

Tony handed Detective Sportelli the file. "That would be 'Little Bobby' Freeman and Tom Cassidy, who you just locked up for possession of stolen property."

The detective's eyebrows came together in a frown. "Those two jack-asses? What did they do to upset the Navy, anyway?"

"They murdered a sailor and assaulted a Canadian police officer," Ziva replied succinctly.

"Wait, does this have anything to do with that 187 where they found a second guy in the dumpster?" the detective asked, his eyes narrowing. "Damn, that guy was a cop?" He sighed, and the aggravation and defiance seemed to drain out of him.

"_Canadian _cop, so I guess he'll be the most polite assault victim you ever met - if he ever gets out of the coma," Tony quipped sarcastically.

The detective closed the file and shook his head sadly. "Damn," he swore again, more softly. "I haven't had the chance to go through all the stolen property we took off them when they were brought in. I have about a thousand other cases..."

"What can you tell us about these two?" Ziva asked, interrupting Sportelli's inner self-flagellation.

"I knew this was going to happen sooner or later, as soon as Little Bobby got together with Tom Cassidy. It was like the match made in hell. Little Bobby used to be into petty theft, small time stuff, but he had these delusions of grandeur. Then he made friends with Cassidy, and they came up with this routine. They would go down an alley, and Cassidy would pretend to be beating up on some poor little dude. Some hapless would-be rescuer goes to help him, and _wham_! Suddenly, Bobby's not so helpless anymore, and _you _have to cancel all your credit cards after you get out of the hospital. We actually busted them for it once, but we didn't have enough to hold them. Smug bastards." Detective Sportelli shook his head in frustration. "You got the evidence to nail them for this?" he asked grimly.

"Do fingerprints and DNA count as evidence?" replied DiNozzo.

After a moment, the detective smiled tightly. "They're all yours."

* * *

><p>Little Bobby slouched in the NCIS interrogation room, his feet perched insolently on the table. He lived up to his moniker - he was only about five foot five, all told. Ziva could have broken him in half with her pinky finger. His face was swollen and lividly bruised, evidence of being on the receiving end of some hard knocks recently, and there were several stitches near his temple. Gibbs was not impressed with him. As he stalked into the room, he rudely shoved the punk's feet off the table before sitting down opposite him.<p>

Smirking, Little Bobby sat up and leaned back in his chair. "What, Five-O can't find any way to frame me, so they call in _CSI_?" he mocked defiantly.

Gibbs folded his hands and fixed a steady gaze on the diminutive criminal and said nothing.

His target squirmed slightly, but remained uncooperative. "Yo, what's this all about, anyway? I told those cops I'd never seen that stuff before! Why are a bunch of CSI dudes interrogating me, anyway? I didn't do nothing!"

Right on cue, Tony entered the interrogation room and dramatically dropped the evidence box on the table. The thump jarred Little Bobby, nearly causing him to lose his balance in his chair.

"That's NCIS, not CSI, jack-ass," Tony corrected him nonchalantly.

"Whatever, man," Little Bobby muttered.

Gibbs coolly opened the box and pulled out a wallet in an evidence bag. The wallet was open, revealing an official ID for one Constable Michelangelo Scarlatti of the Toronto Metropolitan Police Department.

Now it was Gibbs's turn to smirk. "You know, if you had looked at this before you got picked up at the hospital, even _you _might have realized that the man you assaulted and robbed was a _cop_," he finally said.

The suspect's face paled, and he swallowed nervously. "Hey, you can't pin that on me! I only found that stuff! I was going to turn it in to the police before they arrested me!" he protested in an attempt to maintain the unconcerned front.

"You thought it was a nice gig, didn't you, Bobby?" Tony took up the narrative. "You and Tom would lurk in an alley, wait for someone to pass by, and then he'd pretend to beat you up while you called for help. A Good Samaritan gets lured down the alley to save you, only to have the tables turned when you hit him on the head. While he's out cold, you two rob him. Only things didn't exactly go according to plan this time, did they?" DiNozzo continued. "A second person saw you, or heard something, and tried to intervene."

"And you killed him," Gibbs concluded decisively.

"What?" Little Bobby vehemently objected, jumping to his feet. "I didn't kill _nobody_!"

"Sit down," coldly ordered Gibbs. Little Bobby froze under his gaze and slowly fell back into the chair. Gibbs placed a photo from the box and placed it on the table. "His name was Seaman Julio Ramirez. He was a Navy computer technician who wanted to become a cop one day, so what do you think went through his mind when he saw you two throwing someone into a dumpster?"

Little Bobby's lips twisted, and his throat bobbed nervously. "Look, CSI dude, I didn't kill _nobody_. All I know is that me and my homie Tommy, we was walking down the alley, and this dude here attacked us for no reason! He was crazy, man! So we was only defending ourselves, you see? But we didn't kill nobody! Look at this!" He pointed at his stitches and swollen face "That's what this dude did to me! He assaulted _us_, man! But we didn't kill him! The dude was alive and screaming bloody murder when we left, man," he babbled anxiously.

"You left him with a subdural haematoma," Tony snapped. "He might have been on his feet when you ran away, but he was already bleeding on his brain. He might have survived if he had gotten to a hospital right away. He probably passed out almost immediately after you left him there, but he couldn't called for help anyway because you had smashed his phone against the wall."

"You can't prove none of this." Little Bobby licked his lips, his eyes darting about trying to find some avenue for escape.

Gibbs pulled the length of pipe out of the box and slammed it down on the table next to the wallet. "Your prints on the pipe used to assault Constable Scarlatti," Gibbs stated flatly. "How could they get there if you were just minding your own business?"

"I don't know, man! We go through that alley a lot! Maybe, maybe I-I-I touched it sometime, you know? We didn't smack no cop, and we didn't whack that crazy dude!" Little Bobby protested.

Little Bobby's voice caught in his throat as Gibbs held up one more item, gleaming in the pale light. "Guess where we found this? It belongs to Constable Scarlatti, but it was in Seaman Ramirez's hand when we found him. You took it along with everything else you stole from Scarlatti, but during the struggle with Ramirez, he managed to grab it."

Little Bobby shrugged, desperate for some way, any way out. "Maybe _he _stole it from the other guy!" he suggested. "He was _crazy_, man!"

"Oh, did we forget to mention the best bit?" DiNozzo chuckled. "While we were busy collecting your sorry ass from D.C. Metro, my buddy Tim found surveillance footage from a brand-spanking-new security camera that was just put up on the building across the street from the alley. Smile - you're on _Candid Camera_, Bobby."

The diminutive criminal folded his arms defensively. "Yo, I want my lawyer now, man."

"Yeah. I thought you might," Gibbs replied.


	9. Chapter 9

"Team 1, Briefing room, now," Ed Lane said grimly as he entered the training room.

Sam's head came up defensively. "This isn't about the tower incident, is it? I thought we had covered and re-covered that. Everything was good."

"'ll let the Boss tell everyone all at once," Ed replied tightly, his intensity spilling over. "Now. Briefing room." Without another word, he turned on his heels and left.

"What's got _him _tied in knots?" Sam asked in confusion. Ed Lane could be pretty high-strung at times; it had been an enormous relief to everyone when he and his wife had made up after the baby was born. It was never a good sign when he got monosyllabic on them.

Jules shrugged noncommittally, her face pensive. "Not a clue. Something must've happened; he was fine earlier. Come on, let's go find out what this is all about," she said, leading the way out of the exercise room.

When they arrived in the briefing room, Raf was already sitting at the table, hands folded, with Cochrane from Team 2 next to him. Ed loomed by a window, while Parker stood grimly by the screen that had been set up.

"Hey, Boss, what's up?" Sam could have cut the tension in the room with a knife. Jules was right; something bad, very bad, had happened. Sam and Jules sat down next to Raf, who seemed just as in the dark as they were.

The sergeant grimaced slightly. There would be no beating around the bush with his team. "Spike's in the hospital in Washington," he said frankly.

"What?" Jules exploded in astonishment.

"What happened? He was going to a computer geek convention, not a drug bust!" Sam objected in disbelief.

Raf asked the question they all were thinking. "How is he?"

Parker held up his hands to forestall a further barrage of questions. "I talked with the agent in charge of the case earlier. Spike's in a coma. They said it was touch and go and that the details of the incident were still confused. I do know that an American sailor was killed, as well."

"They don't think that _Spike_ had anything to do with that!" Sam fixed the sergeant with a dubious expression. Of all the members of Team 1, Spike would be the absolute last person Sam would suspect of murder. He loved life, and he somehow still had that wide-eyed gleam of wonder that most veterans had lost years ago.

"I don't know _what_ they think, which is why I'm going down there in person," Parker replied. "I cleared it with Commander Holleran. Team 1 is on stand-down until further notice. Team 3 will be filling in as the on-call." He looked at each of his team in turn. Cochrane, Spike's fill-in from Team 2, laid a comforting hand on Raf's shoulder. Raf, meanwhile, was trying his best to be strong and look like he wasn't deeply affected by the news.

Sam hoped from the core of his being that neither of these two men would ever have to experience the death of a team-mate.

* * *

><p>Mrs. Scarlatti was remarkably calm and collected when Greg picked her up at her home; maybe it was shock. It hadn't been that long since her husband, Spike's father, had died after a prolonged and debilitating battle with cancer. To learn so soon after that her beloved son might die as well...<p>

Greg wondered how _he_ would react if it were his son Dean in the hospital; a wave of empathy washed over him as he helped her with a hastily packed bag.

In contrast to the drive, which seemed almost surreally brief, the plane ride seemed to last forever, though it could only have been an hour and a half. Glancing over at Mrs. Scarlatti, he saw her fingering her Rosary beads in her lap; though he wasn't an especially religious man, he silently prayed that this woman wouldn't lose her son also.

Waiting for them past customs was a man in his early thirties, wearing a suit and tie that screamed "federal agent" and holding a sign that read "Scarlatti" in large, bold letters.

"Welcome to Washington D.C.," the man said as they approached him. "I'm Special Agent Timothy McGee, NCIS."

Greg shook his hand firmly; he noted that McGee didn't try to turn the handshake into an arm-wrestling competition. "Agent McGee, I'm Sergeant Greg Parker. We spoke on the phone. And this is Mrs. Scarlatti, Constable Scarlatti's mother."

McGee smiled sympathetically at the woman. "It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am; I wish it could have been under better circumstances. Your son and I share similar interests. I was at the same convention he attended." McGee had an open, honest face; Greg had no trouble reading the genuine concern and kindness in his words.

"Thank you for your concern, Agent McGee," Mrs. Scarlatti replied, speaking for the first time in over two hours. "If you love your work with the same passion as my Michelangelo, you must be a happy man, indeed. Now, please, take me to my son."

* * *

><p>McGee was a bit surprised that Sergeant Parker was a good several inches shorter than he was. Of course, McGee wasn't exactly a shrimp at six foot two, but Parker had this force of personality that seemed at odds with his height.<p>

No wonder he was the sergeant in charge of the lead SWAT team in Toronto.

There was no doubt in McGee's mind why Parker was here: first and foremost to be at the bedside of a friend and colleague, but he was also to see that the interests of his own department were respected. Which was likely how he argued it to his commanding officer in Toronto.

As they walked to McGee's car, the sergeant inquired as to whether there had been any developments since they had last spoken on the phone.

"Actually, there have been," McGee replied with a smile. "We've made some arrests."

Sergeant Parker seemed to relax slightly as McGee revealed the news, but it was Constable Scarlatti's mother that spoke first.

"You've caught the men who hurt my Michelangelo?" Mrs. Scarlatti asked, her eyes shining with hope.

"Yes, we think so, ma'am."

She clasped McGee by the hand. "Thank you, Agent McGee. Please see that there is justice done to them," she said fervently.

"We'll do our best, ma'am," he reassured her.


	10. Chapter 10

_Spike found himself standing in an alley. Looking around, he already knew it as the same alley in Washington D.C. where he was attacked, but it was unnaturally bright and clean, as if someone had polished everything to a supernatural shine. For an indeterminate amount of time, he stood there alone, just staring absently around him._

"_So, why'd you come back here?" someone behind him suddenly asked. _

_He didn't turn around, but he recognized the voice, though he'd only heard it once. "I don't know," Spike replied to the unseen figure. "You know, this place certainly looks nicer than the last time we were here."_

_The other person laughed. "Yeah, I guess it does! Definitely cleaner this time around." Spike could sense the man coming closer, almost touching him. "It wasn't your fault I died. I came here by my own choice."_

_Spike cast his eyes down to the gleaming asphalt. "I don't deserve this; I never did. Lou, he did the same thing you did, you know? Died to save me."_

"_One man down range, my friend," the other man replied, laying comforting hand on Spike's shoulder. "Your friend Lou made his own choice, too. And he chose to lay down his life for his friend."_

"_I know," Spike sighed. It didn't seem fair, but there it was. "So why'd _you _do it, anyway? Why'd you try to save me? You didn't know me."_

"_Why' does a guy need a reason to do the decent thing, man?" the unseen voice retorted. "I guess my mamá just raised me right." Amusement colored the man's voice. "I think yours did, too."_

_Spike's limbs started to feel heavy, and he blinked his eyes, trying to keep them open. The strange light that had filled the alley began to fade rapidly. "I'd've liked to've met you sometime," he said softly._

"_Vaya con Dios, my friend," the other man whispered in his ear before the light vanished completely._

* * *

><p>Spike gradually became aware of a steady beeping sound somewhere in the darkness that surrounded him.<p>

And there was another sound, the sound of voices. People talking. They were so familiar... His fog-filled mind tried to match them to names, to faces.

"He looks so pale," someone was saying. "My sweet boy..." His mother. She sounded so sad...

"_Mamma, dove sei?_" he tried to say, but his mouth was so dry it came out a nearly inaudible mumble. Suddenly, he felt a pressure on his hand. His own fingers twitched in answer.

"_Michelangelo, il mio caro ragazzo!_I am here, I am right here beside you, Michelangelo," he heard his mother cry from far away. He concentrated on that beautiful, familiar sound and latched onto it like a rappel line, riding it towards the source. The blackness faded a bit and he realized his eyes were closed.

"Spike? Spike, it's okay," reassured another familiar voice, powerful but calming. "It's good to hear your voice, Spike."

Spike licked his lips. "Yours... too... Boss..." he said, slowly opening his eyes.

* * *

><p>The courtroom was packed near to bursting - sailors, cops, civilians, reporters; it seemed like the entire world crammed itself into this one room. The story had caught the hearts and minds of the public here in the States. Back in Toronto, a certain close-knit team of SWAT officers crowded around a television, faces glued to the screen.<p>

The physical injuries from that night had all but vanished. His hair had grown back, completely covering the small scar left when the stitches were removed, and his memory, initially fuzzy and blurred, had quickly returned, full force.

Spike glanced over at the defendants' table. 'Little Bobby' and his buddy Tom dressed up in suits and ties now, trying to present a civilized, dignified appearance to the court. But Spike could see beneath that veneer. Underneath, they were just a couple of punks, trying desperately to worm out of the responsibility for their crimes.

He caught the eyes of a silver-haired man near the front of the court. He'd met Special Agent Gibbs briefly before returning home to Toronto for his recovery; the man had a quiet, smoldering intensity that commanded respect. Gibbs had told him about the young sailor who had died only feet away from him. _Seaman Julio Ramirez_. They'd been in Washington for the same conference - for all he knew, they could have passed right by each other throughout the week, without knowing.

But that night, the night they were both supposed to be flying home - Spike to Ontario, Seaman Ramirez to California - they both went for one last walk around the city. _The world's a strange place_, he mused.

Sitting proudly next to Gibbs was Spike's mother. She had insisted on coming back here with him for the trial, despite his protestations. She always did as she pleased, in the end.

Spike stepped into the the witness box, his head held high. _This is for you_, he thought. Seaman Ramirez, the young sailor who dreamed of becoming a cop. Lou Young, the friend who laughed and joked with him. Even his dad, who wanted so much for him to leave the SRU, not understanding that for Spike, it wasn't about a _job_. But most especially, this was for himself.

"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?" the court clerk asked him.

"I do."

**Finis.**

**~o0o~  
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